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The Man With the Tool Belt

Chronicles

eXtasy Books

Heat Rating: SIZZLING
Word Count: 41,651
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All of his clients tell William Harder he’s a great handyman and should work for himself. He decides to give it a try and discovers the true meaning of get the man in—especially with his female clients.

Wearing his tool belt, he’s ready to impress and goes the extra mile.

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Excerpt

I phoned my regular customers and told them, “I’m going freelance.” To a tee, they all said, “It’s about time. We have your number. We’ll call.”

Idiot me thought they’d phone the next day. How stupid could I be!

I took a job at the local coffee shop, cleaning tables to pay the rent.

A month went by, and finally, I had a couple of calls.

Mary was the first.

She phoned me. “Willy, it’s Mary. There’s a blockage in the downstairs bathroom.”

“Don’t worry. No job’s too small…or too large. My call-out fee is thirty dollars.”

“That’s too low. When can you be here?”

My shift ends in half an hour.

“I’m finishing up a job. I can be there in an hour. Same address?”

“Yes, I’ll be expecting you.”

It took me forty minutes to get there. Traffic was light, but it still took me forever. I forgot what a nice neighborhood she lives in. Good, I can park in the driveway. I put on my leather tool belt, picked up my toolbox, and knocked on the door. I’m late, and she’s right. I’m underselling myself. This is close to where I live, and it took ages to get here. I could easily lose fifty minutes each way. That makes it less than fifteen dollars an hour. I get paid as much cleaning tables.

“Willy, thank God you came. I’m at my wit’s end. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. It doesn’t work.”

Mary was five-feet-one and wearing a loose brown top with a wraparound caftan skirt. I guessed her age as late thirties.

She’s kept herself in shape…short dirty-blonde hair, green eyes, and a dimple in her left cheek when she smiles. It’s slightly off-center—sexy cute. She’s hot. How come I never noticed how alluring she is on my previous visits? Focus. I’ve a job to do.

I gave her a hug. She melted into me, and I whispered, “Don’t worry, Mary. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll fix it, or my name’s not Willy.”

“I knew I could rely on you.”

She squeezed my ass, and I responded by giving her a peck on the cheek.

Mary smiled and said, “Follow me, it’s this way.”

The bathroom was at the end of the entrance hall, a good fifty feet from the road. I walked in and immediately noticed it had a water-efficient, low-flush cistern.

“How often does this toilet get blocked?”

“I don’t use it very often, but I must admit, these last few times it doesn’t empty right. I used the plunger. It didn’t really help.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll try mine. It’s a lot bigger.”

She gave me a strange look. I thought for a second she was going to jump on me and then realized exactly what I’d said. I chuckled.

“It’s back in the truck.”

I returned with my extra-large industrial version and a bucket.

Mary laughed. “It sure is big.”

“Yes, it is.”

The plunger quickly got the toilet flushing properly. I filled the bucket with water and poured it down. The toilet gave a satisfying glug-glug sound.

Mary was looking at me weird.

“You’re wondering what I’m doing. It’s a common problem with these low-flow devices. They can save water, but don’t use enough to work properly if the pipe doesn’t have a steep slope down to the sewer. I’ll crawl under your house before I go.”

I went into the space under the house to confirm my diagnosis and noticed a twenty-foot expanse where the pipe only dropped six inches. At the front of the house it dipped dramatically under the front yard to join the main sewer.

I stood at the door and knocked. Mary answered. She’d changed clothes and was now wearing a short, flimsy nightie.

My God, I’m getting a hard-on. Do I think she fancies me? Hell, yes.

“I’m done. A simple remedy is to flush twice every time you use the downstairs bathroom, and make sure you hold the handle down until the cistern is completely empty.”

“Why?”

“The waste pipe under the house is basically flat. This means you have to have sufficient water to flush you-know-what to the front of the house. If you don’t, it sits there, and before you know it, you have a blockage. The charge is the call-out fee. That’ll be thirty dollars.”

“I can’t let you leave without giving you a drink.”

“I’m filthy.”

“Take off your shoes, leave them here, and take off your shirt. The coffee’s made.”

I closed the door behind me and did as she asked.

She turned. “Why didn’t you ever make a pass at me?”

“I always had a next call. My old boss stacked up the work. He didn’t care what time I finished.”

“Are you on the clock now?”

I slipped my arm around her waist. I didn’t have to pull her to me. She was in my arms and aggressively kissing me. I lifted her up, and we stumbled against the hallway wall. She wrapped her legs around my waist.

We broke our intense kiss.

I mumbled, “Wow!”

“Take me here, now—in the hallway. I fancy a knee trembler.”

She leaned against the wall and was busy using her fingers to undo my belt. My jeans fell to the floor, and my erection was free. She slipped a condom into my hand.

I put it on. “Do I get the feeling this was preplanned?”

Her answer—she kissed me. I hitched her flimsy nightie out of the way and pushed her against the wall. No panties. She lifted her knees, gripping my hips as my cock entered her.

She whispered, “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve played with myself, fantasizing about you fucking me while wearing your leather belt. Ah…reality is much better. Yes, squeeze my tits.”

I did one better. I kissed them, biting her erect nipples as I thrust and thrust again.